Easter Rising
by Kavan
Summary: An AU story of the romance of Elsie Hughes and Tom Branson. As well as some info on the middle aged married life of Matthew and Mary Crawley.


I really have no idea what to say about this other than it is 100% AU and clearly totally revises the timeline and character history-so clearly not remotely canon. The entire story came to me in a dream and I literally got up and started writing.

A couple of notes clearly events here must be pushed back to account for one character being very involved in the suffrage movement-so I suppose all the characters are a few years older. Also Branson's writing is very romantic and poetic and so not my style but my muse said he'd write that way.

As always reviews are much appreciated!

**Easter 1957**

Mrs. Hughes, more recently old Mrs. Hughes, never attended church on Easter. The rest of the year she was dutiful in her attendance, Easter she never darkened the church door.

Easter was seen as her own little rebellion. The staff, when Downton had a large staff, would gossip about why, well as far as Mr. Carson and after he was gone Daisy would let the discussion go and that was never very far. "Mrs. Hughes church going habits are her own business." Mr. Carson would intone. Daisy used the same phrase later on… And the younger staff would roll their eyes and conclude the Easter non-church going was an eccentricity. As a woman grew older, spinster women particularly, they had to develop eccentricities to ward off the pangs of loneliness, or so the younger staff believed. Carson then Anna or Mrs. Bates as she was called, another fake marriage the staff was certain, would say only, "No one can understand the workings of another's heart." It was so very silly and pompous the younger staff felt pretending the elderly Mrs. Hughes knew of the workings of the human heart, she was a spinster to her bones and nothing else could ever have possibly been.

As the Earl and Countess aged and the staff numbers dwindled such conversations died away. By the time the Earl died and Matthew and Lady Mary became Earl and Countess, well Downton hardly required a large staff. The younger Crawleys, who were middle aged, preferred London. The Earl was a voice in Parliament and his work demanded much of his time. There was even talk Downton would be placed in the national trust. After all the Earl had been a leading voice against pacifism during the Asquith cabinet and served in the wartime cabinet thus making him a hero and much respected even among people had hated him when they were perfectly happy to advocate peace no matter the cost.

Likewise, Lady Sybil was also much admired for her stances during the latter period of the women's suffragist moment, even among people who had nodded their head approvingly when she'd been imprisoned and force fed.

The late Earl once wryly noted that Matthew and Lady Sybil were most cheered by those who had rained disdain and rancor on them during times when their opinions were most unfashionable. His eldest daughter had scowled at his words, even as Matthew and Sybil chuckled. Lady Mary, well the countess now… had silently endured the public hatred of her beloved sister and husband… began to suffer migraine headaches when she learnt that her eldest child, Caroline intended to stand for Parliament. Eventually however she would rally and would later maintain her happiest day was seeing her husband and daughter seated together in the House of Commons on a day when Lady Sybil delivered a speech on women's healthcare.

.~.~.~.~.

Mrs. Hughes, herself, had followed such goings on with an increasing fatigue. She had watched the world transformed before her eyes. Cars zoomed by, telephones jangling at all hours, typewriters banging. All of it taking the world further and further from the life she'd been reasonably comfortable with…the only world he had known. Still, she was touched when a young maid had phoned to say the Earl and Countess and Lady Sybil were rushing home. As best she understood the cells in her abdomen had begun malfunctioning and multiplying at an ever escalating rate. Months of dismissing the pain as age or a meal not properly digesting had finally fallen away, and she had not risen from her bed in over a week. She was not over tired or a bit under the weather; she was finally well and properly dying. Elsie felt others were more unsettled by this fact. They brought her countless cups of tea and thin soup she could half-way keep down. She had taken no fluid since last night and the spasms had been unrelenting through the past day and a half. Still, she had resisted the needles; if it was to end she wanted to remember one last time all that had come before.

She had asked the youngest house girl Peggy to bring her, her sewing box. The choice had not been accidental. Peggy was shy, barely said a word. She would hold her tongue about any request, Elsie made. Still, she waited until she could no longer hear even the ghost of Peggy's footsteps before opening the box. A half decade ago she had given up even the pretense of sewing. The veins trailed above her skin, the knuckles swollen far beyond the joint, the harbingers of the cruelty of age could no longer be ignored. She had tossed out the needles, spools and spools of thread and snatches of fabric, replacing them with items from several cigar boxes that the late Earl would toss aside with barely a thought. A photo of her niece who caught diphtheria at the age of six, the program from a hospital board meeting when she took far to much pleasure in watching the old bat get knocked down a peg, a cufflink Charles had given her just before he took his last, a bill for a meeting where Sybil had spoken, an aged photo of William that had lived longer than he did the edges curling upwards and the image fading, a thin volume of James Conolly's writing …and at the bottom a browned envelope. She ran her finger idly over the printed letters of her name scrawled across the envelope. She laid the box beside her and allowed herself to drift into a pain filled sleep.

.~.~.~.~.

Elsie woke uneasily some hours later to the sound of rain slapping the window and a silver headed figure watching her curiously. "Are you with the doctor?" She croaked uncertainly, she could barely remember faces these days. Everything was fog and distance as if she was retreating further and further from the living.

"No…" He seemed uncertain for a moment saying, "Mrs. Hughes its Matthew… err." He stumbled and she could feel Mr. Carson turning over in his grave at the Earl of Downton introducing himself by his Christian name, while addressing the housekeeper….

It was quite time for her to go, this world was to different from the one she had barely understood. Still, she soldiered on saying, "I beg your pardon sir," She said slowly, "I am a bit…groggy."

"Aren't we all." He agreed smiling, "Mrs. Crawley and I were sorry to hear you were ill." She smiled at the name remembering the tongue wagging that went on when early on Lady Sybil and Matthew took to referring to themselves as Sybil and Matthew even with the lowest sort of people. The entire staff had felt the worst type of disapproval and waited for Lady Mary who was all agreed the worst kind of snob to pitch a fit. Instead she had taken to referring to herself as Mrs. Crawley or in rare moments of humor, "The wife of the war monger, sister of the formerly imprisoned suffragette, and the mother of two willful daughters." In recent years Elsie had decided Charles was right about Mary. That she was made of steel. She had never imagined that Lady Mary would be a bulwark for Matthew and Sybil only Carson had recognized. Another thing her old friend had been right about.

Realizing she had been silent to long Elsie forced her voice whispering, "I was thinking about the first time I met you."

"Oh," Matthew said gesturing toward a chair and taking it gratefully when she nodded. "I must have seemed a very foolish man that night."

"A bit," Death had loosened her tongue. She was eased when he chuckled easily. "The Countess?" Elsie questioned more as a matter of course than expectation.

"She is upstairs; she thought it best to let you rest up."

"Of course," She agreed quickly. Truthfully the image of Lady Mary…the Countess at a sickbed rather terrified her. Some women are made for mending socks and wiping noses, Lady Mary had never been that sort. Elsie raised her hand, a feat requiring considerably more exertion than she had expected. Yes, it was near enough… Death was coming. She needed, had to do this one last thing. And oddly the Earl being the one rather suited her. Despite knowing him for over two decades she could not say she regarded him enough to worry what he might think of the letter. Yes, it was the time and his Lordship was the one. "I wonder if you could find the envelope in my box." Seeing Matthew's gaze fall on the box she added tiredly, "It is near the bottom."

She rested her eyes, hearing rather than watching Matthew rifle through the box. "Both of the girls have one of these." He muttered talking for the sake of talking, "Goodness knows where they got them…" The Earl was a cigar eschewing, vegetarian who imbibed nothing stronger than tea, though she'd heard such habits were due to his war injuries. The Countess had thrown a proper conniption when she learned her daughter had gone off with that" lame, shell shocked shell of a man", not when Countess Cora had been banking on Richard Carlisle. When the earl had recovered and begun a brilliant career, the late Countess had not had the good grace to apologize or even seem to doubt her earlier wisdom. Nor had her tone even altered when Sir Richard left the country after his wife alleged he had beat her. Elsie's thoughts were interrupted by a low whistle, "Here," Matthew said smiling as if pleased with the achievement. He extended the envelope to her….

She slowly shook her head. "Can you?"

His eyes met hers. "You wish me to read it?"

"Eh." She managed pleased to hear a trace of her Scotch tone remained.

He nodded, opening the envelope and unfolded the page inside. "My…darling?" There was a tremor and a slight flush appeared on his face, "Surely you do not want…."

"Read it," She expelled a hissing sound as another spasm crossed her abdomen.

As if spurred by her spasm, Matthew intoned, _"I write this with a pen nearly as shaky as my nerves. All my big talk of nationalism, things I but dreamed possible, have brought me to lay here on this dark, damp Dublin street. From my position I can hear the guns roaring, hear the stamping of feet crossing roads. Romantically I want to imagine a great, soul stirring triumph. Realistically I know I will not live to see a free Ireland. I try to pretend otherwise but even on the boat coming over I knew I was born in Dublin, and that I had come home to die in Dublin. I fear death so, yet…Yet this battle, this dying is not the catastrophe of my life. My darling it is the catastrophe of my life." _Matthew stopped and turned as if hearing footsteps**.**"I thought someone…"He added before returning to face Elsie and reading the sentence again, and his tone seemed altered as if his English tongue had suddenly taken on an Irish lilt._ "My darling it is the catastrophe of my life that fate determined that we were destined to be born decades apart. Then again time has always been a half-gift, half curse for us. From the first time we were alone on that drive it seemed we were forever snatching time and then losing it…" _Matthew looked at her shock crossing his face, but went on reading,_ "Do you remember that first drive….? Do you remember because laying here on this street, I can remember nothing else.  
_

.~.~.~.~.

**1914**

"I am surprised you consented to drive me." Elsie admitted glancing at the back of Tom Branson. It was a nice back and she was not old enough to not notice the way his shoulderblades showed against the fabric of his shirt.

"Hughsie," Branson had adopted the name not long after he arrived, and persisted in calling her that whenever they were alone. "I can never say no to you."

"You know I have a good mind to speak to Mr. Carson about your freshness."

Branson grinned at her through the rear view mirror. "You will not. Besides Mr. Carson needs all his energies to withstand the shock of ladies serving in the dining room…. You wouldn't want to trouble him with my little quirks."

"I will tolerate no disrespect of Mr. Carson." Elsie warned coolly.

"None intended." Branson said earnestly, for Branson was a terribly serious, earnest man. "Mr. Carson is the best of men. Still," He said cagily, "He does seem to view women serving as near the war in terms of national catastrophes."

Elsie could not help the chuckle that came out and would not have helped it. The war had made everything so serious and difficult; she leapt for any mirth she could find.

On the way back from Ripon they stopped by a lake to eat lunch. She didn't know why but in Ripon she'd asked him to buy sandwiches and lemonade. They could just go back to Downton, still the day was nice and Branson did not seem to mind. So they sat down on a blanket in the grass to eat the sandwiches. Watching the water, she recalls the day Bates tossed his metal monstrosity in those rippling waters. That felt a lifetime ago and she suddenly felt even older than even moments ago.

"I know his lordship tis not pleased with me for not enlisting."

Branson's voice sliced into her memories, jolting her back to the present. She took her time about answering him, cautious always so cautious, even as she swam closer to the most reckless moments of her life. "The Lordship must be allowed his perspective even as you must have yours. He is as English as you are Irish."

"Eh that is true." Branson granted running a blade of grass through his thumb and fingers. "I do respect him, if not his station." He said shooting her a sly grin.

"Were it not for his station." Elsie said seriously, "You would be without a position."

"Possibly, but I've always lived by my luck." As if the thought had only struck him an instant ago he added, "You are a proud Scot."

"I am that."

"So where do your loyalties lay?" As if anticipating her protestations he said, "I know you are not of charming Charlie's mindset. You draw a line between us and them."

She frowned at the comment but said only, "I suppose I am fortunate my country is not opposing the conflict."

"That's a half answer."

She only answered by rising and saying as sternly as she could, "We had best gather our things." It was only as they were walking back to the car that she remembered his earlier comment and questioned, "How do you know I am not of Mr. Carson's mindset?" She asked straining for a critical tone she could not entirely muster.

He grinned answering, "Because the day I arrived when I winked you smiled." And despite all her notions and despite the ghastly inappropriateness of the reaction,she felt her lips tugging into a smile, which was altogether the most inappropriate reaction she could imagine.

.~.~.~.~.

_ "Maybe that day I was already falling in love with you and yet so foolish, not to even know it." _Matthew's voice surprised Hughes as did his gaze downward. Still he went on reading_, "Or was it at the stables that October morning when my heart first opened enough to let you in not knowing you would crowd all else out save this damnable Irish love. A proud Irish lad and a fine Scottish lass falling into feelings no one else could understand. "_

Weeks had passed since their picnic. Fall was swiping the trees painting them in hues of gold, red and brown. The pastoral green had faded, but the trees had a new brilliance. The air was still crisp rather than cool. It was the kind of morning where she could half-excuse herself for needing to be outside even if only for a time. Later she could not quite imagine how she ended up at the stables; she was a town girl, with no love for horses. Still, her feet led and she but followed. She inspected the horses dispassionately, she had always sided with Lady Edith and her Ladyship's disdain of horses, it was yet one further thing she would never understand about Lady Mary. As she walked by Diamond she heard a sob and turned to see a figure passing by… Feeling her interest rise she put on her angry Mrs. Hughes expression, lest some lustful stable hand was behaving inappropriately with a female. But the figure was well garbed, fancily garbed and it took her but a second to place the figure as that of Lady Sybil; before she could acknowledge her Sybil stumbled by crying but desperately trying to appear not to be so.

Elsie watched her even as she heard steps approaching and a loud ragged exhale of breath. She turned unsurprised to see Branson standing merely a step away. "Whatever did you do?" Her tone was more accusatory than she had intended, cold Mrs. Hughes slipped out more easily than she liked.

"You know what it was about." He barked angrily. "Careful lad or you'll end up with a broken heart." He said mocking her tone.

Drawing herself up Elsie responded, "I hardly think mocking me helps the situation."

"Nothing helps the situation." He said glancing down at his feet. "I care about Sybil. I like her. Ignoring the romance, I just liked talking to her. The likes of me don't have much chance to talk with people…" He paused as if uncertain how to classify Sybil. "Like her."

Elsie nodded, "I can imagine."

"Can you?" He snapped angrily. "I'm surprised you do not have your ladyship and the Earl out here to tear me to bits."

Studying him with a kind of perplexity Elsie said, "I fear you all misunderstand me." Seeing his curious expression she continued, "Lady Sybil, Lady Mary, her Ladyship they would all survive any encounter with you or our sort. It's those of us downstairs that suffer from such encounters." She tissked adding, "I would have assumed the Ethel fiasco would make that stance quiet obvious."

"Nothing about this country is obvious to me." He answered sullenly, watching the solitary figure slowly fading out of his view.

"I am sorry for you." Elsie said sincerely. "A broken heart knows no social mores."

He watched her for an endless time, though it was perhaps moment, seemingly piercing directly into her soul with those blue grey eyes. "No," He said shaking his head determinedly and breaking their locked gaze. "You were right. She'll marry someone named Lord Somebody or the Other and I'll just be a little story she tells her grandkids."

Elsie considered his words only a moment before saying, "That's more than some of us have lad."

"I doubt that." He said with a certainty she found surprising. "I would bet more than one fellow will tell his grands all about Elsie Hughes." As if to reinforce the gesture, he reached down and took her hand with his. Gently so gently it almost seemed a dram he squeezed her hand. Elsie glanced downward trying to steel her pulse and control her shock at such a reckless gesture. Then almost beyond herself she felt her fingers tugging at his squeezing his hand.

.~.~.~.~.

_Perhaps that day we crossed a bridge or half crossed it anyway, scarcely imagining how much further we were to travel in the short months to come. Oh if only, if only had time allowed us time but to go even a mile further. If onlys seem to be the geography of my life or the little moments that compose our to brief life together. _

"A bit of light reading." Elise said teasingly as she approached Branson who was sprawled along the base of a tree. They had taken to meeting each afternoon in a grove a good distance from the house. A private place where they could be alone, talk, not talk, sometimes sit in a comfortable silence.

"Hardly," He scoffed rising to his feet. "And you are late."

"A bit of a situation with the new maid." She said off handedly, not wanting to waste their too short time on unwise maids and domestic affairs, "Then a volume from his Lordship?"

"Hardly," Branson scoffed adding, "If the boss saw me reading him, he'd probably blow me off the estate using only his hot air."

Elsie did not smile, she was not quiet that open, but nor did she dismiss his thoughts. "Who is this Connolly then?"

"A writer, revolutionary, a socialist."

"All in your vein then."

Branson chuckled agreeing amiably, "Indeed, he has much to say about socialism and the state of Ireland."

"I've been following the newspapers." Elsie said nervously, a bit shy at admitting even this small thing.

Branson winked saying, "I will make a revolutionary of you yet."

"Things are progressing?" Without waiting for his answer, "The tone on the articles regarding Ireland is quite bitter."

"Nasty journalists. Call themselves journalist when all they are is empire apologists, who'd blow their noses on the paper the King used to wipe his arse."

Elise smiled, "I thought you were a journalist."

"Not that kind." He said adding, "Maybe not at all." Seeing her curious expression he explained, "I used to put stock in words. I still believe in words. But maybe words are not all that is needed. Men like Connolly, DeValera Pearse can provide words enough."

"And your role will be more physical, I take it."

Branson considered her words saying gravely, "I will have to decide won't I?"

"You do talk in riddles and pontificate so." Elsie declared snappishly. "Will you ever say a plain sentence plainly?"

"The time is coming when I may have to lay the pen aside."

Elsie felt a stab of fear run straight through her. "I thought you opposed war."

"I oppose this war." He said carefully as if selecting each word precisely. "If the matter was Ireland I would have to reconsider my view."

"A nationalistic not international battle then." She said trying to work out the contradictions in his word.

He smiled his face bright and cheery. "Aaha you are a gem. Keeping me on me toes."

"I merely want to understand your position."

"I think you do." He said fixing his eyes upon her.

"I am afraid then."

"You should be." He said reaching for her hand. "I am afraid too. But if the times comes and I believe more and more certainly that it will come. I will have to be a man and face it."

Elsie looked away but made no move to unlink their fingers. "And I will lose you."

"Perhaps," He said quietly oh so quietly she had to strain to hear him, "We were always meant to lose one another."

"Then ours is a sadder friendship than even I imagined."

Branson took in her words mulling them before replying, "The sadness is only in things left undone, emotions checked away. We have done things, we have a little more time to go on doing things…. Emotions… We have felt so much more than I expected to ever feel." Elsie felt rather than heard his words, deciding almost as once that she felt the same. Still, she kept silent letting him continue, "You were wrong about us…" He said more seriously.

"Lad," She said warningly.

"Don't lad me don't!" He swore angrily. "You only do that to put more distance between us, woman." Sighing raking his hand through his hair he said, "There is enough of that…our classes, our ages, our work…I know the obstacles." He said growing quieter, his initial anger sapping out of him with each word. "And you are still wrong. Our ages, our classes it cannot matter, not now."

Elsie snorted dismissively, "How can it not?"

"Because I am living on a clock now." He said flatly, a cold kind of certainty enveloping him. "Revolutionaries don't live long lives. The Earl, Mr. Crawley will die old men in their beds. I won't see a fleck of gray."

Elsie withdrew her hand and turned away, "I won't hear that." She declared her voice strangled and raw with emotion. "Not from you."

"You must." He said insistently and rather firmly. "We must be honest with one another. We haven't time for fancy sentiment and great lies."

In spite of herself Elsie felt a smile crossing her features, "With that accent you could make a recitation of the poultry prices sound near poetic."

"Well," He said matter of factly, "You have not heard me speak of lamb and beef tongue." Elsie's laugh caused him to smile. "That is more like it." He stepped closer placing his hands atop her arms. "We haven't got the time I wish but we have a bit left. Let's make the best of it, eh." He lowered his head toward hers angling it so their lips meet softly, so gently, as if he was giving her time to push away. And all she could think, in that moment before she ceased to think when all that was left was desire and affection and yes love, was it had been decades since a man touched her lips. And then his lips pressed harder and she could think no more, only feel and feel so much more than she imagined.

.~.~.~.~.

Later that night alone in her room she paged the book, he'd pushed into her hand when he walked away moments after their kiss. She was deep in thought half reading Connolly, half relieving the first kiss she had in decades when a voice startled her. "James Connolly." Carson intoned glancing at the book curiously. "Is that from his Lordship's library?"

"I think not." Elsie answered chuckling at the notion of his Lordship reading Connolly. They would have to fetch that inept Dr. Clarkson right up to treat him for shock.

Carson seemed to draw himself up a bit saying, "I fear that tome is from Mr. Branson's collection."

"It is." Elsie said placing a slip of paper to hold her page. "I gather there is a point to these questions, or are we creating a Downton Abbey Reading Circle, and you are on the hunt for new titles?"

Appearing mildly ruffled by her words, Carson kept his tone civil saying, "I am merely concerned for your welfare. I do hope you are being careful."

She looked up a frank curious expression crossing her face, "What has caution gotten either of the pair of us?"

"The highest positions in one of the most respectable families in this country." The statement would have sounded ridiculous coming from anyone else, but Charles Carson.

"Oh Mr. Carson, if only I felt as you do." And at that moment she realized the vast gulf that would forever separate her from her dearest friend.

Carson nodded as if acknowledging the difference between them. "I only hope," He sounded pained saying, "I hope he does not hurt you as badly as I fear."

"How can he not." She said with a kind of certainness that rather depressed her.

"And yet?"

She inferred his meaning answering, "Better to salve the scars from a fire than to shiver in the cold."

"Meaning." He said stiffly.

"I have been frigid for far to long." She waited for his very proper, Mr. Carson answer but he merely nodded and walked slowly away, his footsteps sounding oppressively heavy as if burdened by an additional weight.

.~.~.~.~.

_ Do you remember those next few weeks darling? The kisses we stole in a hundred secret places. The way we'd find a way to sneak off and talk. You told me you had never met a man who liked the sound of his voice more than I…you were wrong. I loved the sight of you when I talked, the way you'd arrange your face depending on what I said, the way you would argue my points. The way I knew that if you lived to be a hundred you would never be a socialist, but that you would always listen to my arguments, allow me the weight of my beliefs, and trust me to allow you yours. What a life we made out of those few, few hours. Laying on this cold steet the scent of donuts and bread around me, time seems to creep and creep. Yet for us time raced, it now seems we said hello and moments later said goodbye. Oh how I wished I had more time, an hour or even an instant more to tell you just how much I feel about you, will always feel. Even if we do not meet again in this life, know always that you mattered to me, that what I feel for you is the strongest, surest thing I have ever, could ever know. And know too that I have no regrets, no afterthoughts. We did the best we could with the little snatches of time that we had…. how much we loved in those bits and pieces, snatches of a life that should have been… And all the while knowing it would never be. Not time enough, but somehow time enough…_

"I must confess I am surprised that you would think of leaving at such a difficult time." Robert said tensely.

"I do apologize for the timing. I do have my reasons."

Robert studied him for a moment his eyes utterly cold, "Why do I think those reasons are hardly respectable." He waited for Branson to speak but the younger man kept silent. "Very well." A long moment passed before Robert extended his hand. "I do wish you the best."

"Thank you." Branson said shaking his hand and nodding. Pushing a button Robert crossed the room waiting expectantly…

The door swung open and Carson said, "Yes my Lord."

"Mr. Branson will be leaving. Will you see that he is shown off properly?"

Carson nodded saying with a thin lipped smile, "Of course. Only happy to do so."

.~.~.~.~.

"I'll just bet you cannot wait for me to leave." Branson snapped the second they hit the first step. "I'll bet you have been dreaming about it!"

"I'll be glad to see the back of you." Carson agreed angrily. "You have been a dreadful influence on this house."

"You could give a toss about this house." He said even knowing it was not wholly true. "You do not like my influence on Elsie!"

Carson started stating firmly, "Mrs. Hughes!"

"ELSIE!" Branson called loudly and with a tone of obvious pride.

"Yes." She answered coming to the foot of the stairs, not believing she heard her Christian name.

Branson looked down, "I'm sorry I did not mean to disturb you."

She looked from Branson to Charles and then back, "I have a feeling whatever is being said is disturbing particularly when my name is invoked in anger."

"The disturbance in this house is leaving thankfully," Carson said summarily, as if he was a narrator tidying up a cluttered narrative. "Mr. Branson is leaving," He said evenly. "You knew of course."

"I did not." Elsie said turning and storming ou,t hardly caring if anyone even Miss O'Brien had overheard their exchange.

"Wait!" Branson said hurrying after her leaving only Carson, Mrs. Patmore and Daisy watching rather agog at the proceedings.

After both had walked well rather hurried out of sight, Mrs. Patmore turned and faced Carson with the stoniest of expressions. "You should not have done that Mr. Carson. You should not have done that at all." Charles turned away sighing, feeling very, very tired and very, very old.

.~.~.~.~.

"When did you plan on informing me?" Elsie huffed as Branson caught up with her in an upstairs room. She had fled upstairs needing a time to calm herself. A gentleman particularly a chauffeuring gentleman should not have followed her. A gentleman would give her space and time to recover herself. Of course he followed her. Of course he did. None of the other servants would have, but Tom Branson never followed the rules. Elsie generally loved that about that, but at this moment she hated that trait. Angrily she opened a bedroom door and walked in, he followed her in closing the door behind him. "Or did you plan on telling me? Would I have simply found a note in my pantry?"

"Don't be ridiculous." He countered his Irish lilt never more obvious than when he was angered. "I was going to tell you. I only got the letter this morning and you were off in Ripon."

She sighed feeling her anger checked slightly, besides it was ridiculous to pretend not to have known it would always have ended this way. Elsie prided herself on her Scot logic, and she was not about to let romance alter such a fundamental aspect of her character. "Not that I didn't know." She admitted sadly, "I always knew it would end this way." She sank down on the mattress feeling suddenly bereft and so very tired. Knowing a thing and experiencing it were wholly different, and the actual news had hurt even more than she expected.

Branson sunk onto his knees so they were eye to eye. Taking her hands he said, "Maybe it couldn't end any other way." She nodded as if accepting the truth in his words. He traced his nails lightly over her knuckles, "Do you regret it?"

"Do you?"

"I asked first."

She shook her head. "I ought to…but no."

"No regrets here either." He said continuing to hold her hands.

"Tell me about the letter." She requested running her hand over his soft fine hair.

He rose to sit on the mattress beside her. "My cousin. He has got his ear to the ground. He says things are developing. Thinks I ought to come as soon as I can."

Elsie nodded, "And you will go home?"

"To Dublin."

"And it won't be a pretty homecoming." She said as if needing to sound the truth out, make sense of the insensible.

"I imagine not." He agreed placing his thumb on her jaw line turning her to face him, "But if we succeed it will be a most beautiful thing."

"I do wish I could see what you imagine." She said distractedly as he stroked her cheek with his fingers. She had read Connolly and found him to certain, to expectant. He acted as if socialism was a certainty, something inevitable and eternal. The little she knew of politics made her think it was less certain than he or Branson imagined.

Seeing Elsie tilt her head up he said, "Jasus you are beautiful. That look, the way you just turn your head a fraction of an inch." He seemed distracted, captivated by her. He wanted to store all her looks up in his mind to lean on in the times to come.

"Your Irish blarney." She said dismissively.

"Sincere." He said stroking her face lightly, "You have made me sincere." He moved slightly closer, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. "I know." And then words stopped and his lips covered hers. This was hardly their first kiss or even the hundredth, but the situation was different. Neither pulled away and the intensity increased and increased. She pulling him lower and he anchoring his hands against the mattress. As he did so he whispered, half-prayed really, "If I do live to a hundred," He vowed quietly "I'll never regret this."

.~.~.~.~.

_I hear the gunfire growing closer, feel my own fear increasing even as my resolve strengthens. If I die they can inscribe across my stone; he loved Ireland and a lass named Elsie. Those two truths are with me now, will remain with me however long I walk this earth. If things go not as I hoped but perhaps as I expected, please do not mourn and mourn. Remember me as I was alive, Irish and for a too brief a time yours. Know too that wherever you are there is an Irishman looking out for you, hoping you live the longest of lives and yet impatient to greet you in whatever world socialist, capitalist, or god forbid British that comes next. _

.~.~.~.~.

**1957**

She had been in a daze living again in that summer so long ago, and came to this present time with a start. She looked up finding Matthew sitting beside her. "He died on a Dublin street a few days into the Rising."

Matthew nodded, "I am sorry for your loss."

Elsie studied him unsure if he was being sincere, or was a canny enough politician to pretend to be so... "I know this must confound every single thing you know."

"Perhaps less than you would imagine." And for a moment the image of Lavinia flashed before him. Of a life he'd half dreaded, but still expected to endure. Of strawberry blonde children that might have been. And then his daughters; one blonde and blue eyed like him, one who was the mirror image of Mary flashed before him. And he would not, could not imagine a life without them. And yet those phantom lives could still haunt him. Nights when he woke drenched with sweat unsure if he was lying wounded beneath Mason, crippled never again to stand or walk much less love any woman, or watching Lavinia sweat and thrash across the bed. Even Mary's sleepy assurances could never wholly calm him on such nights.

And he'd gotten to marry the woman he loved, who got the children and the career… How would it be if he only had the memories, the pitiful what if's? That thought half haunted him each time he visited that dear girl's grave, paying homage to the death that liberated him from the life he'd dreaded. Nothing of a romance of a housekeeper and a chauffeur could much shock him. Returning the letter to the envelope Matthew extended the letter to Mrs. Hughes.

"Keep it lad," She rasped, "I long ago memorized every word." Almost as an after thought, almost as if she half remembered something she croaked, "Being loved even for a short time is a wonderful thing." He could hear the fatigue in her words, and the heartache as well.

"It really is." Matthew agreed watching her close her eyes, letting the fatigue win at last.

.~.~.~.~.

Mary was seated in the library paging through a volume of her father's feeling a tad melancholy. It was strange; she had lived in a small house just outside of London for the better part of the last twenty-five years. London was home. . She had long ago given up a fantasy that she and Matthew would grow old here. They were Londoners, and the girls were city girls too, and by spring they would have a grandchild in London.

Downton was merely a place they visited now. Yet, Downton still maintained a stranglehold on her affection. Simply looking up at Papa's picture caused a swell of emotions. Oh how she missed Papa and Mama. How she missed Downton as it once was, of how it could never be again. Brining in her thoughts she heard a strangled sob and hurried footsteps.

"Sybil!" Mary called instantly recognizing the crier, and rushing into the hall. Seeing Sybil disappearing up the stairs, she followed her down the corridors only stopping at Sybil's bedroom. "Sybil," She said opening the door. "Whatever happened?"

Sybil was sprawled across the bed, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I was wrong, all wrong." She cried placing a hand over her face. "How could I be so wrong?"

Mary lowered herself to the bed, uneasy as ever with emotions. She simply laid a hand on Sybil's shoulder thinking she had not seen such woe since Sybil's first release from prison. That night Edith had slept on one side of the mattress, she on the other, and Sybil in the middle sobbing and shaking the entire night. Nothing close to that had happened in all the years since. "Tell me darling." She urged lightly massaging Sybil's back.

"I thought he loved me." Sybil confessed, so softly that Mary strained to hear her words.

"Gray?" Mary questioned feeling more and more confused by the thread of the conversation. Besides she'd never much liked Sybil's former husband, and was forever hunting new things to add to her list of his flaws.

"No," Sybil said adding brokenly, "Branson."

"Branson." Mary repeated the term as if pronouncing a foreign word. "The socialist chauffer?" Mary sounded not unlike people on the radios who were guessing in contests where they had no real idea of the answer, but wanted to give it a go regardless.

Sybil looked up, "You don't remember him?"

"I remember him." Mary answered defensively, though truthfully she only remembered the night of Sybil's first rally when she had felt a momentary concern that he might have feelings for Sybil… Matthew had proposed that night and that had driven all other thoughts from her mind.

"Do you know what happened to him?" Sybil demanded angrily.

Mary shrugged uncertainly, "Died in the war." It was what happened to a surprising number of servants. Despite her husband, daughter and sister's views, Mary had maintained the shallowest relationships with the servants. She considered herself a kind employer, but a disinterested one as well. She had never understood the rest of her family's desire to chat up the servants.

"No." Sybil said softly. "He died at the Easter Uprising."

"Oh," And it is a quiet sound. Any mention of death in a battle of any sort and Mary was right back to a time when she thought the man she loved might die at any second. That that man had been returned and became her husband and the father of their girls made no difference. She was forever standing in the library being told Matthew was missing. "I am sorry."

"I loved him." Sybil admitted the words tumbling from her lips. "I was devastated that whole spring. I thought I had lost my love…"

"You were in love with him!" Mary sounded utterly revolted.

"I thought I was." Sybil said vaguely. "Tonight I realized I didn't even know him." Sybil glanced up and saw from Mary's expression that she was waiting expectantly. "He was in love with Mrs. Hughes." Mary decided she would store that tidbit away, and try and sort it out later. "How could I be so wrong about him? I thought he loved me." Sybil declared as the tears overtook her again, and Mary reached out and cradled her sobbing sister, trying to comfort her as best she could.

.~.~.~.~.

Matthew watched as the doctor injected the needle into Mrs. Hughes' arm. "She'll rest now." Young Dr. Clarkson said. "She needed this hours ago, days ago really. She kept putting it off. Do you know any reason why?"

Matthew nodded, "I think I do." He said reaching into his pocket and touching the papers with his fingertips.

"She won't last the night." The doctor announced coolly as if discussing the weather.

Matthew thought young Dr. Clarkson reminded him a great deal of old Dr. Clarkson, and not in a particularly pleasant fashion. However, while he considered Dr. Clarkson's tone bloodless, he could not disagree with the diagnosis. "Stay with her," He instructed the maid and followed the doctor upstairs and out the front door.

Once they were out in the air the doctor said; "Call me if she has another spell, at the least we can keep the pain down."

"Thank you." Matthew said shaking the man's hand and standing watching him walk toward his car.

Watching the man disappear into the darkness, Matthew tried to piece together the events of the last few hours. Shoving his hands deep into his pockets he recalled the first night he came here-a callow, priggish youth. Of the night he had thoughtlessly brought Lavinia, and how by the end of that visit he knew his love for Mary would stalk him the rest of his days. He remembered bringing Reggie Swire here for Lavinia's service. Of the spring morning he'd walked up, ran really, to tell Robert and Cora they had their first granddaughter. He remembered the raw winter morning when he walked up Caroline and Mary by his side and Carson first said, "My lord." So many memories tied together and he was only on the steps. Stepping back inside he limped toward the library, he must have left his cane downstairs. He had a cane again. The past really did circle back around. He half expected to turn again and see Isis loping down the hall. She was buried in their tiny garden, having outlived first Robert and Cora, and come to be a city dog much to their youngest's pleasure.

Limping to the desk he lifted the one photo of he and Mary that remained at Downton. Taken during the war, Caroline their oldest had been 20, and Jane their youngest just 10. Two only children as Mary put it. He pushed aside the memory of tiny Christopher who had lived but a few days in 1925, just long enough to break Mary and his hearts in a way nothing could ever wholly repair. Glancing up at Robert's picture, he supposed it was better that Robert never knew about Christopher that he never knew his heir and Mary would only have girls. He would have taken it badly, and it would only have served to deepen the strain between them. The morning Matthew had ran, dragging his bad leg along, to tell them of Caroline's birth Robert had lost control just for an instant, letting a "Damn!" slip out. Cora was instantly apologetic and he certainly never told Mary about the incident, but it forever changed things between he and Robert. Well more to the point having a daughter, two daughters now changed things. From the first moment he'd held them, feeling their warmth in his arms, he'd felt a kind of primitive reaction at nature with his practical mind. He would do anything to protect them, care for them, and assure they never felt for a second that they were anything less than perfect to him. And once he felt that way, he could not understand Robert feeling differently.

Thinking of his girls caused Matthew to look determinedly away from the portrait and the darker memories, and he returned his gaze to the photo of his family. Mary, Caroline and Jane the three great loves of his life…all as different as daylight from dark and yet all Crawley women with traces of Violet, Cora and Isobel evident in their behavior.

Caroline who had much the look of him with his coloring and eyes but who was in intellect and sarcasm was far more the child of her grandmother and great grandmother. Even while an infant she would steeple her fingers as if studying Mary and Matthew, not unlike an anthropologist studying a foreign tribe. As a young girl she would sit for hours turning the pages of books in deep contemplation, even before she could read a single word. Such a serious child, she would request sweets money and then rush down and give it to the poor woman who sold poppies in the park. Caroline, who had made her mother despair by announcing coming out was about the last thing she ever intended to do… Well Mary said she despaired but Matthew always suspected she Mary actually proud of Caroline for that stance. Serious Caroline who attended Oxford then followed her father into politics and joined him in the House of Commons. "Oh Mama the house of Lords is not a place for a proper person. I'm so glad Papa resigned and ran for his own seat. I will do the same."

And Jane, their baby, born a decade after her sister, long after Matthew had thought they were a very complete family of three. Whereas Caroline was cerebral and logical, Jane was impulsive and decisive. The doctor had come to call on Mary December 23rd and pronounced they would meet the new Crawley in the new year. Matthew and Caroline had gone to Christmas Eve services the next evening, returning an hour or so later to the sound of a baby's cry. Christmas morning Matthew had awoken, in his chair having left the bed to Mary, to the church bells ringing and the sight of all three of his women curled up together in bed.

Jane who had the same coloring and figure as Mary but who had spent the first seven years of her life with the sole ambition to become a pirate. Who would come home from school with perfectly drawn images of dinosaurs, who filled boxes with insects. Jane impulsive and impetuous who's true delight was to sneak past the governess and climb into her parents' bed first thing in the morning, scrambling between them, an arm over each of them. "Papa I love you so much. When I have my own ship you and mama can come along, but you will have to be proper pirates and help me steal loot."

Finally there was Mary, his love, well his life actually. On their wedding morning he'd foolishly thought that it was impossible he could ever love her more than that moment. Yet now that love seemed a pallid thing. When did the love become a permanent fixed thing? The year after their marriage when they lived in Grantham House in London and Mary nursed the shellshocked excuse of a man back to health. The night Caroline was born and he sat staring at them all night quite incapable of believing his luck. The night five year old Caroline had nearly died of influenza and they could only bathe her face and pray for her, making deals with any power that might save their daughter's life. The evening in his study when Mary had nervously told him they would have another child. The times she'd stood by his side being cast off by friends because of his stance on Wallis Simpson or Hitler or any of the other unpopular decisions he had made. The thousand times they'd argued and disagreed and still found their way back together. The times he'd been terrified of losing her. The horrible migraine pains that placed her prostrate in a darkened room for days at a time…. The doctors said not to worry…no physical damage would be done. When he saw the woman he loved in agony he worried. Nights he'd sit up in his chair just watching her sleep.

How could Robert, how could any man not admire women of that sort. How could he pine for what he did not have when he had so very much. Yes Matthew decided if Jane's baby was a granddaughter…nothing could suit him more. He had such a marvelous time with his three women. Reaching out he turned off the desk lamp and walked off toward the stairs.

.~.~.~.~.

"At last," Mary called descending the stairs and approaching Matthew; feeling relief wash over her at the sight of him. "Where have you been?" Without waiting for an answer she continued saying, "Sybil has lost her mind, she is upstairs sobbing over a servant that died decades ago, and…." Her sentence was stopped when she saw the odd expression on Matthew's face. "Darling what's wrong?"

He had turned facing her and taking her hands into his own demanded urgently, "Have I made you happy?"

Mary eyed him wondering if hyper emotionalism was a virus infecting the household. "Well," She said with faux seriousness. "We do share a bedroom even on country house weekends, so I assume so."

"I am serious…"He said with a frightening intensity. "Do I make you happy?"

"Of course." It was such a ridiculous question.

"Happier than if you'd married someone with more money and a different work schedule." Mary had certainly never held her tongue about his work schedule.

"Are you feeling alright?" Mary asked and her half-critical tone made Matthew laugh and embrace her a second time. Mary was quite at a loss… First her sister going on about being in love with their socialist chauffer, and now her husband babbling about them being born had he made her happy. They were both clearly spending to much time with Americans. She was further surprised and taken slightly off balance when Matthew pulled her to him and kissed her hungrily. When they finally broke apart she released a ragged breath asking, "What was that for?"

"Everything." And without the slightest warning he suddenly lifted her and began twirling her he had all those years ago. And Mary bit back the wifely desire to tell him to be careful of his back, and simply responded as she had decades before and laughed feeling quite suddenly and completely blissfully happy. Of course she would have to figure about socialist chauffeurs, and Mrs. Hughes and her husband's odd emotionalism later.

.~.~.~.~.

Elsie could just hear the laughter. It was a beautiful sound and she was content that it be the last one she heard, for her eyes had grown heavy and her entire being felt weary. So she closed her eyes in the half-dark waiting for whatever would come next, if anything would come next. It felt but an instant later that she opened her eyes again. This time the brightest sunshine was streaming in the room. Looking down she saw her clothes changed, vaguely she recognized the dress as one she wore in her youth. Rising to her feet she found the pain totally gone and her figure that of decades and decades before…Feeling a sudden hopefulness she rushed from the room, out of the vacant kitchen, up the stairs and out the front door. She inhaled the fragrant air, the scent of fresh hay and just cut grasses mingling in her chest. Almost at once she heard a cheeky, delighted, "Hello my love." A voice beckoned and she turned to see a very alive Thomas Branson extending out his hand and in taking it she felt the decades melt away. The pain and sadness replaced by a contentment and certainty that was foreign to her. Without waiting for a reply, Branson twined their fingers saying, "Let's be away from here eh?" And she could only smile and fall into step beside him as they walked into a sunlight so bright that she believed that it just might last forever.


End file.
